


Space Married

by lost_spook



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, F/M, Ficlet, Meme, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 12:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6985807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_spook/pseuds/lost_spook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t panic, but I think we might have accidentally got married…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Space Married

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/gifts).



“So I’d gathered,” said Clara, waving a hand at the enthusiastic wedding feast that had been going on for a couple of hours now. “But it doesn’t count, right? I mean, marriage by accident on Galactica 7 isn’t going to be legally binding anywhere else.” She took another swig of her drink and smiled at him.

She was taking it much too calmly, he thought. She ought to be outraged at the violation of her human rights, even if they didn’t technically apply in the Galactican System. He glared at her. “Probably best not to drink too much of that, either.”

“Now you tell me,” said Clara, finally looking alarmed. “It’s not poison is it? Or – you know – to make sure we consummate the marriage?” She flapped her arms about and if she meant what he thought, she had a peculiar idea of how the human reproductive business was supposed to be conducted. But then, she taught English literature, not biology. You had to make allowances.

The Doctor shifted on his chair. “Yes and yes. And no and no. And yes.”

“Doctor?”

“Well, technically, alcohol counts as both those things, so . . .”

Clara shook her head at him. “Hey, after the day I’ve had, I need a drink. Stop trying to scare me out of it, thanks.”

He felt that wasn’t a very responsible attitude for a school teacher, thinking about Ian and Barbara, who he was sure would never have done that sort of thing. And then he thought some more and remembered what they got up to when a person left them alone in a Roman villa for a couple of weeks, and adjusted his mental database accordingly: teachers, always getting sloshed. Probably all that working with annoying small humans. Bound to do things to you.

“Look, Doctor,” said Clara, lowering her tone as she leant in towards him, “we’ll just enjoy the party they’ve thrown for us, thank them nicely, leave in the morning, and get on with our lives. And if it bothers you so much, we can always find a planet where they do accidental divorces or something. No problem?”

“No problem,” said the Doctor. Of course it wasn’t a problem, why should it be a problem?

 

He’d offered to sleep on the floor, but Clara had only given him a _look_ and asked him if he was daft, and so here he was, in the large, overly be-flowered marriage bed, still wearing most of his clothes (but not his shoes or the sunglasses – Clara had objected), with Clara Oswald climbing in beside him. To be fair, she also had most of her clothes on (although there had been less of them to begin with and she’d done a complicated manoeuvre he didn’t even want to think about, pulling her bra out from under her light dress before also tugging off her tights and shoes). She hadn’t drunk all that much at the party, either, but on the hand, she was a midget-sized person. It might have been more than enough to go to her head, or wherever it was it went with humans.

It wasn’t a problem, the Doctor told himself. Sleeping in a bed next to Clara wasn’t any worse than hugging her, was it? He’d got quite used to that. Maybe even almost liked it. A bit. And kissing. If you counted the sorts of slight maybe-not-even-really-kissing that went on between them. That was all right, too. With Clara. Maybe even . . . other things would be all right. With Clara. He risked turning over to face her.

She was propped up on her elbow, watching him, and not quite smiling, but definitely amused. “Don’t panic, Doctor,” she said. “I’m not going to ravish you, I promise. It’s been a long day, and I was knackered even before it turned out the victory celebrations included us getting married.”

“Right,” said the Doctor, and so that she was in no doubt whatsoever that he was thoroughly relieved and not even the tiniest smidgeon bit disappointed, he added: “Good. Glad to hear it.”

“Good night,” Clara said, lying down. “Space husband.” 

Then she snuggled up against him, causing him to freeze in position for a moment before he mentally assessed the situation and decided that this wasn’t so bad either. Like a hug, only less complicated. He could feel Clara Oswald, warm and very human and probably slightly drunk, pressed against him; her breathing evening out as she fell asleep next to him. Weren’t small mammals supposed to have better survival skills than to show vulnerability like that in front of alien predators? That was scary. Or, he amended, possibly a compliment. A scary compliment.

Still, he thought, he could understand now why humans liked hot water bottles in furry covers or cats sitting on their laps and purring. It was comforting. Ish. Once you discounted the increased sense of time passing and the fragility of the universe brought on by the nearness of one ridiculously breakable heart beating too fast nearby, as if it wanted to race to its end. Ssh, he wanted to say to it, don’t do that, no endings here.

Clara gave a soft snore. That was irritating, the Doctor told himself. He had to tell himself that to compensate for the fact that he didn’t actually _feel_ irritated. Anyway, he decided, the situation fully assessed now, it was all right. Not bad. Nice. Better than most of the accidental wedding nights he’d had up till now, he’d give it that. He even then returned the compliment of trust, and let himself fall asleep next to her, if only for a little while.


End file.
